


The Last Cigarette of the Day

by lousy_science



Series: The Does What it Says on the Tin series [2]
Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: M/M, PWP, Smoking, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 12:02:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11920494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science
Summary: More bunk smut.





	The Last Cigarette of the Day

Before the war, the two best things that had happened to Collins were getting his acceptance letter to Cambridge, and the summers spent with his Uncle in the Lake District. The former for how it had affected his cold, proud parents, and the latter for the chance to escape after another term of boarding school. His uncle ran a leisure boat business and was happy for the extra help, and Collins loved every moment of it, the outdoors, the light, the freedom to do what he wanted in the most beautiful part of the country. Aside from those weeks of bliss, his school years had been miserable, stuck in purgatory with a couple of hundred other unhappy teenage boys. 

He hadn’t refrained from any indulgences of the flesh at school, but there contact had been more about comfort as a defense against loneliness. Other boys who had the same furtive hands as he did, looking for something to make them feel less far away from anything like home. Afterwards the glow never lasted long. Sometimes, Collins would feel even worse once they’d left him, like he could topple off the side of the world and no one would notice or care. 

When Farrier touched him, it wasn’t about convenience but delight. Every time was a victory. Farrier was generous, had been from the first day Collins arrived at his first assignment. Walking into the barracks he’d stopped just beyond the door as the flier in the bomber jacket looked up at him, squinting under a heavy brow, lips pursed. Collins hefted his kit bag off his shoulder and introduced himself. Before the pilot told him his name, shook his hand, and showed him where to put his gear, he had smiled back at Collins and nodded. It was the nod that let him know, you’re one of us now, this is your place. 

Since then, they’d made space for each other in dozens of corners, in dark nights when the wind lashed the walls around them, and in the light of day in welcoming green corners of nearby tree groves and, one time, a church yard. 

Tonight there was a light rain tapping a steady cadence on the corrugated iron roof. It was payday, so most of the squad were out tripping the light fantastic. Farrier was stretched out on the lower bunk, his cigarette burning the brightest light in the room. He wasn’t reading, or listening to the radio, or doing anything but smoking a fag so slowly you could mistake him for not breathing at all. 

Farrier did things thoroughly and without distraction. His eyes were staring into the middle distance, and Collins knew from the faraway look on his face, wreathed in curls of smoke like a patient martyr, he was thinking something through. There was no point in asking what was on his mind, Farrier would just shrug, but the next day there would be a solution where previously there had been a problem. An engine that refused to turn would fire smooth as silk, or a route path would be re-plotted to save ten minutes. There would be a new, clear route to doing something, and Farrier wouldn’t even try to take credit for the results, he’d just stand back and enjoy watching a thing done properly. 

Collins sat on the bunk next to him, in the opposite direction, his back to the doorway and stockinged feet propped up on the side of the pillow. Which put his back to the door and the window, but gave him a perfect view of Farrier. He was on top of the sheets, ashtray balanced on one thigh, in his skivvies. A tattoo on his right arm had been the first one that Collins had ever touched, having only ever seen them on one of his Uncle’s old Navy mates. 

It had intimidated Collins at first, but now it was a special spot for him. There were two more tattoos on Farrier; a cross on his back which always made Collins think of his old Religion teacher, Professor Haden-Guest, who taught them that tattoos “and other self-mutilation practices” were remnants of primitive tribal beliefs in other countries. Then on his left bicep, a shamrock, for his Irish mother. But Collins’s favourite was the biggest one, of an eagle mid-flight carrying an angry serpent in its talons. He’d never known you could put colour in tattoos. 

“Did it hurt more, when the colour goes on?”

Farrier had smiled when he asked that, but he’d not pulled his arm out of Collins’s grip. “Not much. Not anymore than the others. Took a little longer,” he twisted his neck to look down at it, as if taking in the eagle’s ferocious expression and shimmering wingspan for the first time. 

“But worth it. Good scratching, ain’t it?” 

Collins just thumbed the skin where the bright red and blue-black lines met. It was like looking at a magic trick, even if he knew how it was done, he still couldn’t quite believe it. 

Farrier’s cigarette had burned to nothing but ash, and he moved to stub it out, the action sudden and decisive. His eyes turned to fix on Collins, who asked, “Was it a half-pack problem, then?”

“Three smokes did it.”

“They should get you in Whitehall, you know. With a supply of tobacco and all the issues of the nation, let in the tea lady to your office a couple of times a day, by the end of the week you’ll have smoked us to victory.”

Tucking the ashtray under the bed, Farrier pushed the sheets down with his feet. “Nah,” he said, lying back further, his arms behind his head. “I’d rather be here.”

“Lucky for us.”

Farrier made a noise like _hmph_ , like he wasn’t sure that he was that important, wasn’t Collin’s true north, the heart of the squad, their top flier. Farrier looked on issues from the outside, never factoring himself as worth that much consideration. 

It was even darker now, but Collins thought he could see more than ever. The lines of Farrier’s chest, the steady up-down of his breathing, the huddle of his legs under the blanket, his bad knee crossed on top of his other one. 

“Don’t think I’d like it much,” Farrier mused. “Whitehall. Not much seems to get done there.”

Collins had friends in the civil service, worker bees running around consumed with their own importance. His father, aghast at the idea of him becoming a pilot, had pressed him to apply for a similar position. 

“Not much,” he agreed, just to stop the quiet getting too embedded between them. 

Farrier’s head moved, cocked towards him. “You comfy over there?”

Collins smiled, and ducked his head to avoid hitting the top bunk as he climbed over to sit on Farrier’s blanket. They wouldn’t need words so much now. 

Burrowing under the covers, Collins tried to get Farrier on his other side, so he could touch the tattoo again. But Farrier had some idea of what he wanted, and it wasn’t like they had that much time before the other lads would start stumbling back in, blind drunk and loud. 

Farrier stroked his hair off his forehead and pressed his lips there, staying still even as Collins was getting hot for it, rutting his hips up against Farrier’s, his body busy with pent-up energy. Farrier, contemplative still, held him close and focused him with kisses as he peeled up Collins’s undershirt to expose his chest. Thumbs rough from engine work traced down his sternum and pressed over his nipples, and Collins couldn’t stop himself from moaning, then, even before they’d really started. 

He’d never known it could be like this - he wanted to tell Farrier that, sometimes, but made up for it by showing as much care as he could back. His leg was wrapped under Farrier’s left leg, elevating his bad knee, and his hands going over Farrier’s face, neck, arms, chest, back, every place that Farrier would touch him and make him feel good and secure. Collins didn’t know what strength he could pass on to Farrier, who was tough and smart and brilliant in the air, like a bird of prey, but he had warmth, and he rubbed it into the points of Farrier’s shoulderblades. 

Farrier’s lips on his chest now, and Collins pressed back into the silver of mattress he had behind him, twisting as open as he could. When breath met the slick of saliva on his skin, it felt like a whispered promise. The muscles in his legs bunched up where they were entangled with Farrier’s, and he felt his heartbeat throb throughout his body.

They were both hard, and their pricks were pressing up against their underwear, which was suddenly more bulky and cumbersome than any airsuit. Farrier pushed a hand between them and unbuttoned the top of Collins’s shorts, pulling him free, and he laughed softly into the curve of Collins’s clavicle. 

“Here, here.”

Collins’s wasn’t sure what he was being asked to do, but his body was sure, hips hitching up against Farrier, who had one hand on Collins’s face and the other around his erection. Collins caught his thumb in his mouth and suckled at it. He would like to swallow down Farrier’s cock, or have it greased up in the curve of his arse, or have Farrier on his back on a huge bed, all his skin exposed for Collins’s enjoyment. 

They didn’t have space for any of that tonight, but Farrier’s firm hand on his cock was enough to put Collins into freefall. He snuck his own hand down into the flap of Farrier’s pants and got a handful of his own. Farrier grunted with satisfaction, and moved more on top of him, up and down with the flicks of their wrists. Good thing, Collins thought, they were pilots, used to having firm command of their steering. 

Putting his spare hand between their mouths, Farrier licked around it, dabbing his tongue between his fingers into Collins’s lips. Then he moved his spit-wet palm down, knocking Collins’s hand away to grasp the two of them together. It was quite a handful, both their hard-ons pressed tight, thin skin moving over rock-hard muscle, the moisture nowhere near enough to take away from the raw rub of flesh that almost hurt. But any pain was overwhelmed by the sparks generated. Collins thrashed under Farrier, a rocket unable to reach orbit. 

He felt the breath dry up in his throat and almost coughed to death as he spent. It seemed to come from the soles of his feet up, his release skidding through his leg muscles, his arse clenching, his core as hot as if he’d swallowed burning coal. They were messy together now, Farrier panting over him, his prick poking into Collins’s stomach, then he gasped and Collins could just about make out his face. Those bright eyes glazed, staring down at him, their eyes meeting as they both breathed heavy through wet lips. Farrier looked amazed. Collins felt seasick for a moment, all his nerves lit up, their seed damp on his belly. 

Wrapping an arm around Farrier, he pulled him close. Might as well get them both sticky. He could feel the sweat beading on Farrier’s shoulders, a stronger nervous reaction than he’d ever seen on him after a flight. They nestled together a little while, before Farrier groaned and shifted his bad knee up. 

“You need that wrapped up?” There was a bandage compress Collins sometimes did for him, to ease the pain.

Farrier just shook his head. He was looking distant again, though his hands were still attentive on Collins. Whatever thought he was lost in, he hadn’t left his bedmate behind entirely. Collins did his best to clean up using a corner of the sheet. He could feel a steel bedspring jabbing into his back. 

Giving Farrier’s thigh a little squeeze, he moved to climb out of the bed. 

Farrier held him back, looking down at him again. Two fingers came up and flicked his sweaty hair off his brow. “You’re going to sleep, then?”

Collins laughed. It wasn’t as if he was going to do anything else. Discretion being the better part of valour, he was going to do it in his own bed, even if they’d left the room smelling of sex. 

“Mmmm,” Farrier said, his lips next to Collins’s ear. “Have sweet dreams.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Collins said hastily. He didn’t want to be another one of Farrier’s three smoke problems.

A finger traced the edge of his face, tapping his jaw with butterfly lightness. Farrier stayed still for a long minute, then leaned back, giving Collins enough space to pull his legs away.

He didn’t at first, wanting to curl up under Farrier for a while longer, pull him close for more kisses, maybe another round. But instead he picked up his feet and turned back to his own bunk. Over his shoulder he said, “Good night.”

“Good night, Collins.”

Collins lay down and, before slipping off to sleep, took the time to be thankful for all he had. He pressed his palm down on his chest and held it there. In the morning he would wake up in the same position, not sure at first whose hand it was that was clamped firmly over his heart.


End file.
